


Good Omens Drabble

by jamestiqueeriuskirk



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Camping, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:30:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4778810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamestiqueeriuskirk/pseuds/jamestiqueeriuskirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Remind me again, angel-“ (the pet name spat with such contempt that any onlooker also unfortunate enough to be caught in the downpour would have to deduce the pair either mortal enemies or lovers, and, well, what with statistics on divine lifespans being what they were, process of elimination was not hard to employ) “-why it is we’re here.”</p><p>Aziraphale, who, moments before, had been holding his own remarkably well for someone who nearly hadn’t seen sunlight, much less rain, since a time most would describe as “before Christ,” chose that moment to fall victim to a wayward branch, blown by the wind, which, to some extent, detracted from the credibility of his answer. “It’s not all that bad.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Omens Drabble

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to a friend of mine for requesting "air conditioning camping trip" multiple times

There were a few traits Crowley liked to consider central to his being. These traits, more often than not, were subject to change on a schedule curiously similar to that of the production of each new interpretation of the James Bond franchise, but there were a few staples that had remained consistent since, oh, Sumeria at least. For instance, the running checklist usually, at any given time, included “suave,” “handsome,” and “collected.” It, typically speaking, excluded “wet,” “grouchy,” and “crawling with insect bites,” but the state in which poor Crowley found himself just now would be better described as the latter than the former.

“Remind me again, angel-“ (the pet name spat with such contempt that any onlooker also unfortunate enough to be caught in the downpour would have to deduce the pair either mortal enemies or lovers, and, well, what with statistics on divine lifespans being what they were, process of elimination was not hard to employ) “-why it is we’re here.”

Aziraphale, who, moments before, had been holding his own remarkably well for someone who nearly hadn’t seen sunlight, much less rain, since a time most would describe as “before Christ,” chose that moment to fall victim to a wayward branch, blown by the wind, which, to some extent, detracted from the credibility of his answer. “It’s not all that bad.”

“Not that bad, you say?” Crowley parroted back at the sheepish looking angel. “There’s a reason humans have moved on from sleeping in the woods to sleeping in high rises.” (The reason, in fact, was Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Paradise, so Crowley gladly, privately took credit for mansions and apartments alike.)

“You don’t sleep.” A reasonable objection, but Crowley preferred not to pay lip service to reason.

“But I’d rather not do it in my apartment than in a tent.”

“That isn’t how Adam feels.”

But of course. The Antichrist, The Beast, The Prince Who Is To Come (Or Was To Come and Has Since Arrived, Somewhat Anticlimactically), The Idol Shepherd, had roped them into this with his lament that he’d “never been camping, not proper-like anyways.”

Adam’s idea of “proper-like” camping seemed to be lifted directly from the old scouting magazines his dad kept on hand, and since Crowley could hardly refuse to cater to the wishes of someone technically his boss and Aziraphale could hardly come up with a decent excuse to opt out of the excursion, they’d both been dragged along to the night in the woods, watching on as Adam slept, oblivious to the storm around him in his divinely impenetrable tent.

Still, Crowley supposed, a night in the woods every now and then was better than a world with no woods (nor cities nor oceans nor highways nor shaky, symbiotic relationships between agents of Heaven and Hell, and really, isn’t that what he’d miss most of all?). Aziraphale, for his part, supposed nothing, at the moment, but Crowley liked to imagine he would agree.


End file.
